


strike us like matches

by llyrical



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Casual Sex, Drug Use, Face Slapping, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Possessive Behavior, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-12
Updated: 2016-08-12
Packaged: 2018-08-08 06:56:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7747597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/llyrical/pseuds/llyrical
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He half-expects Lynch to say some dumb shit like <i>’I never knew how a person could be considered a bad habit until I met you,’</i> and then he remembers that Lynch isn’t Proko, and that’s kind of what Kavinsky likes about him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	strike us like matches

**Author's Note:**

> This started as some casual rovinsky PWP and somehow turned into the slightest bit of Kavinsky pining and more prokopinsky than anything else. 
> 
> I just love Proko a lot. Sue me.
> 
> You can find me on tumblr at [Prokopinskys!](https://prokopinskys.tumblr.com)

Kavinsky breathes out a laugh as his back hits the floor. “You just can’t quit me, can you, Lynch?”

Ronan lets out a sound akin to a growl as he rips his tank off, the move showing off muscles and an expanse of beautiful, scarred skin. “I like you better when you’re not talking,” he mutters, quick to fall into Kavinsky’s lap and pull him into a bruising kiss. 

Kavinsky’s hands come up, fumbling a bit when he realizes that this isn’t Proko and Ronan doesn’t have hair that he can grab onto. Instead, he digs his fingernails into the back of Lynch’s neck, relishing in the hiss of pain that the boy lets out. 

He bites at Lynch’s bottom lip and receives a moan in response. Kavinsky laughs as he pulls away, tugging Ronan forward so that he can nip at his neck. 

“You’re kinda fucked-up,” he says, not unkindly. Ronan rolls his hips down and Kavinsky presses up into the motion. 

“Tell me,” Kavinsky breathes, skillful fingers flicking open the button of Lynch’s jeans and dragging the zipper down slowly, “are you thinking about your pretty boy right now?” 

Lynch freezes, and that’s the only warning Kavinsky gets before his wrists are being grabbed roughly and pinned forcefully to the ground. Lynch looks mad, face red and twisted up in anger, and it sends a wave of heat into Kavinsky’s stomach.

“Do not,” Ronan hisses, “fucking talk about him.”

Kavinsky grins. Lynch rips off his sunglasses and snaps them in half.

If it were anybody else, Kavinsky may have pulled out the revolver tucked between the couch cushions. But it’s Lynch, and Kavinsky just swings a leg up to flip them over. When he has Lynch beneath him, he slaps him across the face, and the look that he receives in return has him surging down and capturing Lynch’s lips.

When he pulls back from the kiss, he slaps him again. Lynch lets out a moan, low and filthy. 

“Fucking hate you,” Lynch spits after Kavinsky slaps him one more time. Kavinsky is already tugging Lynch’s pants down a bit more so he can pull out his cock.

“Sure.” K strokes up the other boy’s cock and Ronan squirms a bit beneath him, pressing up into the touch. “That’s why you keep coming back to me, isn’t it, babe?”

He half-expects Lynch to say some dumb shit like _’I never knew how a person could be considered a bad habit until I met you,’_ and then he remembers that Lynch isn’t Proko, and that’s kind of what Kavinsky likes about him. 

When Ronan groans, Kavinsky leans down to kiss him again. Lips against Lynch’s, hand tight around Lynch’s cock, K murmurs, “You want me to fuck you, don’t you?”

He can see the fire in Lynch’s eyes, the drive to disagree, but when Kavinsky’s fingers twist skillfully around his dick, Lynch grunts out a quiet, “Yeah.” It’s said like a curse more than it is an agreement.

“I’m sorry, what was that?”

Lynch’s upper lip curls back in a snarl. Kavinsky can see the words _’go fuck yourself’_ written on his face. 

Instead, Lynch swallows his shame and groans, “I said _yes._ ” And then, quieter, “Fuckin’ asshole.”

Just like that, K releases his hold on Lynch’s cock, sitting up and using only his body weight to hold Lynch in place. “Well, you’re shit outta luck,” he says. “Take care of yourself.”

Lynch blinks at him, and then moves quickly, shoving Kavinsky back onto his ass and struggling to tug his pants back up. His eyes burn like fire, and he snarls, “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

K drags a hand through his hair. He can’t remember when he lost his hat. “Lots,” he answers truthfully. 

Ronan has his fists clenched as he pushes himself to his feet, looking like he’s genuinely considering dragging Kavinsky up and throwing a punch. It wouldn’t be the first time. 

Instead, he mutters, “Fucking asshole,” and retreats up the stairs. 

K does a line of coke off the soda-stained coffee table before heading up himself. He’s not sure where the majority of his gang is tonight, but Proko is laying on his stomach on the couch, hair messy under his hat and eyes tired as he scrolls lazily through his Facebook feed on his phone. 

Kavinsky simply nudges him over, and Proko tucks his phone away and rolls onto his side to make room. K isn’t much of a snuggler, but he’s definitely not complaining when Proko slings an arm around him and presses his face against K’s neck, breath warm enough to draw a shiver out of him.

“You smell like him,” Proko growls. Despite the animosity behind it, it still manages to come out sounding more matter-of-fact than accusatory. 

“It happens,” K answers simply, because he doesn’t have to fucking justify his actions to Proko, and Proko knows it. 

Instead of responding, Proko sinks his teeth into K’s neck and starts to suck a mark into the skin. 

Kavinsky plucks Proko’s hat off his head and tosses it across the room, tangling his fingers into messy blonde locks. “I didn’t fuck him,” he tells the other boy, and he’s not sure why, because he _definitely_ doesn’t need to justify this. 

This seems to surprise Proko, who stops sucking and just lightly drags his teeth against the now-sensitive skin. “Why not?” His voice is muffled, breathing a little ragged when K tugs gently at his hair. 

K shrugs. “Keeps him coming back for more.”

He feels Proko stiffen a bit against him for a moment before relaxing when K pulls at his hair again, this time a warning. 

Proko pulls back from his neck, resting his cheek against the couch and meeting Kavinsky’s eyes. If he’s surprised by the lack of sunglasses, he knows better than to question it. 

“You can’t collect him, y’know,” Prokopenko says.

He’s a little startled, but doesn’t show it, instead just raising an eyebrow. “And why not? I’ve been doing well enough so far.” He gestures vaguely up and down Proko’s form on the couch as if to emphasize this point. 

Proko just shakes his head, muttering, “It’s different.” Before K can reply to that, Proko presses their lips together, a much more gentle kiss than the ones K had been sharing with Lynch just an hour before. Fingers pressing into the back of K’s neck, Proko continues, “With us, we all belong to each other. It’s different with him. You’ll never belong to Ronan Lynch.” 

Kavinsky’s stomach lurches just slightly. 

The thought makes his chest burn a bit with anger, and he takes this out on Proko, kissing him roughly and maneuvering them until Proko is underneath him on the couch. Proko seems fine with this turn of events, body becoming liquid under Kavinsky’s fingertips. 

He has Proko shirtless in seconds, and Proko whines slightly at the feeling of K’s nails biting like knives into his skin. Clear eyes stare up at him, filled with everything from desire to devotion. 

For once, K’s mind is far from Ronan Lynch. 

“What do you want?” K murmurs against Proko’s lips, fingers ducking underneath the waistband of his shorts. Proko presses desperately up into the touch. “Tell me what you want, baby.” 

The pet name just fuels Proko more, and his arms wind tightly around K’s neck. He leans up to press his lips close to Kavinsky’s ear, practically _growling_ , “Show me what he’s missing out on.” 

A possessive snarl falls out of Kavinsky. In this moment, there’s nothing he wants more than to do just that.


End file.
